


The Mutual Secret

by thebureauisclosed (insibbegerest)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Canon Era, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:18:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insibbegerest/pseuds/thebureauisclosed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire suddenly discovers one of his friends is trans. Scratch that, three of his friends. Or perhaps five. No, wait... EVERYONE IS TRANS AND HOW THE HELL HAD HE NEVER NOTICED?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jehan

Jehan was thrashing around in Grantaire's bed, peaceful sleep avoiding him like men avoided plague.

Wait. Don't get the wrong idea, Grantaire and Jehan were friends, nothing more and nothing less. The only reason Jehan was currently occupying Grantaire's bed was that they had got spectacularly drunk (well, especially Jehan had, Grantaire knew how to hold his liquor) and Jehan's place had seemed too distant, so Grantaire had offered his bed and they’d ended up crashing in his mess of a flat. Grantaire had lied down on the ground, only covering his legs with a holey blanket - bed was a luxury he could do without for one night.

Perhaps Jehan was having nightmares? Grantaire sat up and shook his friend’s shoulder.

Jehan's eyes shot open. ‘‘What?’‘ His breath reeked of alcohol.

‘‘You had a nightmare. Or something of the sort. I thought it would be better if I woke you up.’‘

‘‘Thank you.’‘ Jehan moaned and hugged the pillow.

‘‘Are you alright?’‘

‘‘Yeah, I'm fine, I just... I think I should go home,’‘ Jehan said in a choked voice, struggling to get out of his bed and stumbling over the tip of the duvet in the process.

‘‘I don't think so, my friend,’‘ Grantaire grinned, outstretching his hand to help Jehan back on his feet. ‘‘You can barely get out of the bed without hurting yourself, who knows if you would survive walking all the way home? I would not bet on it, and you know I love betting on impossible odds.”

‘‘But I really must go.’‘

‘‘Pray tell why?’‘ Grantaire folded his arms, watching Jehan with the look of a mother whose son returned home too late after spending the whole night in the pub.

‘‘I... Okay, you were right, I am feeling unwell. I need some time alone,’‘ Jehan murmured, taking a step away from Grantaire. Darkness was shrouding the room and Grantaire could not be sure, but he thought he saw a pained grimace on the other man's face. He was growing worried - what if something was seriously wrong? Has Jehan taken ill?

‘‘If you are truly feeling unwell, someone should stay with you. I am as good a someone as any other, therefore I offer my services.’‘

Jehan stood there, exchanging a long glance with Grantaire, hesitating. ‘‘Grantaire,’‘ he said finally, ‘‘what if I had a terrible secret?’‘

‘‘Don't we all?’‘ Grantaire raised his eyebrow. ‘‘Although I can hardly imagine a gentle poet like you could surprise me. You would not believe the things I have heard...’‘

Jehan possibly would not confide in Grantaire were he still not affected by the shocking amount of wine he had drunk and Grantaire possibly would tell him to keep his secret to himself until he would sober up, were he not as drunk as the poet. Neither of them were capable of thinking rationally though, which was why Jehan said, ‘‘My secret, it... could ruin my life if the others found out. Please, promise me you won’t tell a soul.”

‘‘You have my word.’‘ Grantaire was many things, but he was neither evil nor uncaring. He would never betray a friend who approached to him in a moment of need.

‘‘Light up a candle or two, but not more, please,’‘ said Jehan, biting his lip nervously.

Grantaire nodded and did as he had been told. When the second candle lit up, he turned his attention back to the poet. What now, he wanted to ask?

‘‘My face, my body, my voice... I look feminine, don't I?’‘ Jehan asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘‘Well, there is a reason for that. I... am not really a man.’‘

‘‘Wait. What?’‘ Grantaire gaped at him. This he had not expected. What was Jehan talking about?

Jehan gave a nervous chuckle at his friend’s puzzlement. His slender hands disappeared under the soft fabric of his shirt. Grantaire squinted, he could not recognise what Jehan was doing and his confusion only deepened when Jehan's hands reappeared, holding a bandage.

Grantaire's eyes darted up and it was only then he noticed the difference.

‘‘You... have breasts,’‘ said Grantaire stupidly.

‘‘Yes,’‘ Jehan nodded, voice filled with shame. He was shuffling his feet and fidgeting with the bandage awkwardly. ‘‘I usually take the bandage off before going to bed, but tonight, I forgot. It is difficult to sleep a peaceful sleep when your chest is on fire.’‘

‘‘So... You are a woman.’‘

‘‘I... It is more complicated than that. Oh god, I should have kept my mouth shut, you're going to think me insane,’‘ Jehan's eyes widened with fear as he lamented.

‘‘Perhaps,’‘ Grantaire admitted, ‘‘but all of mankind is insane. Only a handful of chosen ones have been allowed to retain their sanity. Me, I am definitely not one of them, my mind is a dark labyrinth even Theseus himself would get lost in. I understand imperfection and madness, I cherish them. You won’t scare me off that easily.”

‘‘Alright,’‘ Jehan said shakily. ‘‘I have never felt comfortable in my body, as though... I should have never been born a woman. My breasts, they... look wrong, feel wrong. They get in the way. But I know I am no man, and I don't think I would want to be one. When you think about it, what is a man? What is a woman? To me, they are just words, confusing words that are toying with my head and won't leave me alone. I am me, Jehan Prouvaire, a poet and a revolutionary, why should I need to be anything other than that?’‘

Now this was something new to Grantaire. But it was true that even though Jehan had feminine looks, Grantaire never doubted he was a man. It was as though Jehan lived in both worlds, or in neither. He spoke the truth; why would he have to define himself with more than his name, why should he need to justify himself? He was who he was, that should be enough.

‘‘No one can dictate who you are, Jehan. No one but yourself,’‘ said Grantaire. ‘‘If you don't want to be anything other than Jean Prouvaire, than that is who you are.’‘

‘‘So, you... do not think any less of me now?’‘ Jehan asked hesitantly.

Grantaire laughed, slapping Jehan's shoulder lightly. ‘‘Honestly, who am I to judge? Look at me, the drunkard, the good-for-nothing, the living and breathing disappointment. No, my friend, I do not think less of you. After all, you are the same person you were yesterday, are you not?’‘

After that, Jehan surprised him with a crushing hug and a whispered thank you.


	2. Joly and Bossuet

All things considered, yesterday had been a good day. Jehan had remained at his place until afternoon. They'd talked; first about Jehan's secret, later about literature and art. Although Jehan was soft where Grantaire was rough, metaphorically speaking, and their minds worked very differently, the two never ran out of conversation topics. As it happens, artists of any sort share a connection other people would not understand.

In the evening, a meeting had been held by Enjolras and the two of them had showed up, as they’d always done. Grantaire had spent those hours listening to Enjolras' voice, Jehan and the others had spent it listening to the words Enjolras' voice was saying. Wonder of wonders, Enjolras had been in a good mood and hadn't shouted at Grantaire once. Not that Grantaire minded terribly when Enjolras yelled at him; at least he had the man's attention.

If yesterday had been a gentle rain, today was a tempest. Grantaire woke up terribly hungover despite not having drunk that much liquor the previous night. His head was threatening to explode and the insides of his stomach were threatening to leave their rightful place.

Well. If he decided to sleep through the rest of the day, no one but him would have to know, right?

xxx

The second time Grantaire woke up, he felt worse, even though he hadn't thought it possible. Death itself seemed far more pleasant than this torment called life, but he forced himself to sit up and drink some water.

The best way to fight alcohol-induced sickness was to drink more alcohol, of course. He didn't want to drink alone though, there was certain desperation in it which he preferred to avoid. He changed his clothes quickly. When he couldn't find a matching sock, he simply shrugged and put a shoe on his bare foot.

He set out for Joly's and Bossuet's appartment. His best friends were always willing to spare some of their precious time for him. And for wine, obviously.

When his fist was raised and about to knock on the door, muffled laughter stopped him. The door was slightly ajar, he noticed. It appeared Joly and Bossuet already had other visitors.

Grantaire pondered if he would be welcome, he didn't want to disturb. More of the laughing could be heard. Unable to resist the temptation, he peeked in through the gap.

Afterwards he wished he hadn't done that.

He recoiled from the door as if thrown away by some greater force. Some things were not meant to be seen and what was happening behind the almost-closed door of Joly's apartment definitely counted among them.

All Grantaire had got glimpse of were blurred silhouettes of three very much feminine figures in various states of undress, their limbs entangled in a most interesting way.

His initial thought had been that perhaps his eyes had been failing him or that some mad women had broken into his friends' appartment in order to engage in obscene activities, but now that he could hear the voices coming from the room more clearly, he was able to identify them. Joly, Bossuet and their mistress Musichetta.

The sight threw Grantaire off balance, mostly because this was a position he’d never want to find his close friends in, not because of the shock or even disgust. Although shocked he definitely was. First Jehan, now Joly and Bossuet? How many of his friends held secrets he had no idea about?

Well, it only made sense that Jehan was not the only one to live his/her (it took Grantaire until now to realise he wasn’t sure how to refer to Jehan; he would have to ask him/her about it) life like this. Grantaire wondered if Joly and Bossuet were doing so in order to be allowed to join the revolution or just because they felt more comfortable this way. When the right time came, he would try to carefully bring the subject up.   

Grantaire shuddered and closed the door quietly so that no one else would find out what he just had. He turned around, deciding to head to the nearest pub.

„Loneliness and desperation, my oldest friends, here I come again,“ he murmured bitterly. He couldn't wait to hold a full bottle in his hands. Who cared women would give him disgusted and pitying looks and Enjolras would scowl at him? He did not, at least not enough to stop. Drinking was a way of preventing his thoughts from slowly killing him and wasn't it a basic human trait, to avoid pain at all costs? Not that Grantaire always avoided pain, mind you, sometimes he seeked it willingly, but that was only to forget about his melancholia for a while. Robbing Peter to pay Paul may not be wise, but it wasn’t like he had other choices.  

He set a pace so fast it would leave professional athlets glaring enviously. Thank God wine could erase unwanted memories miraculously well. True, he usually enjoyed the sight of women’s curves no less than any other man would... or most men, at least. And some women, too. And remembering Jehan’s confession, some undecided individuals as well, Grantaire supposed...

...he really needed his wine, everything was too confusing for him to handle it sober.

While walking down the street, he wondered how Enjolras would react if he found out about Jehan, Joly and Bossuet. For reasons unknown to Grantaire, Enjolras didn’t want women to take part in his revolution. Did Enjolras worry they would be a disctraction, did he simply not want them to get hurt? If so, he had probably never encountered an angry woman. In his opinion, they were often more scary than men; his mother would yell at the National Guard once and they would flee in fear.

Grantaire chuckled upon imagining his old mother winning the revolution for Enjolras and he entered the bar.


	3. Feuilly and Bahorel

One bottle easily becomes two, two turn into four... You drink and drink and can't stop. Step one, warmth spreads through your stomach, step two, you struggle to walk straight, step three, your tongue turns loose. And finally everyone's favourite step four - forgetting your own name, vomitting, and other delights.

Waking up in a place you can't remember going to and feeling like your head was hit by a hammer could be considered step five.

Step five accutely described Grantaire's current state. When his eyelids fluttered open, all he could see was a pair of brown shoes. They were fine shoes. Why didn't he have shoes like that? Ah, of course. Because the little money he had he spent on rent, food, drinking and art supplies. Another question that entered his mind was: why on Earth am I lying on a wooden floor with my nose almost brushing someone's shoes? He wasn't even surprised by the turn of events anymore though. Such is the life of lost existences.

‘‘There are many advantages as well, don't you agree?’‘ said a voice, probably belonging to the shoes. Well, not the shoes themselves; the person whose toes were curled inside them.

‘‘I suppose,’‘ said another voice. ‘‘But that does not make me hate lying any less.

The shoes sighed. ‘‘I'm not saying it's perfect, but it could be much worse than this.’‘

Wait, Grantaire knew the voice, he had heard it more times than he could count. Heard it shout, heard it order drinks, heard it say inappropriate jokes. He identified speaker one as good old Bahorel.

‘‘Of course,’‘ said speaker two - Feuilly, who else, how had Grantaire not recognised him before? It might have something to do with the fact that Feuilly usually preferred silence to useless chatter.

‘‘Skirts, for example!’‘ exclaimed Bahorel. ‘‘Skirts and dresses. I have always loathed wearing them. Trousers are so much more comfortable.”

‘‘Not during... certain days. They are too tight.”

Grantaire blinked a few times. None of what his friends were saying made any sense to him. Skirts? Trousers? Perhaps he was not awake, but trapped in the strangest dream; of course Grantaire’s dreams would be strange, everything his brain came up with was.

He looked around. Staring at a single pair of shoes could keep one entertained for only so long. Another pair of shoes, probably belonging to Feuilly, entered his line of sight. Upon raising his eyes, Grantaire discovered he had fallen asleep under a table. Which indicated they were in Musain. Good. Better than the one time he woke up in a small village not too far from Paris.

Why had the staff not sent him away, had they not noticed a drunk man lying on the ground? Either that, or they had not cared.

‘‘Everything is awful during those days, I always get a terrible stomach ache,” said Bahorel.

‘‘Maybe Joly would help you with that, but... who knows how he would react.”

‘‘Definitely better than Enjolras would,” Bahorel snorted.

‘‘You are not being fair to Enjolras. I believe he would not send us away.”

‘‘Believing in things does not make them true, dear Feuilly. I believe myself to be a man and yet I keep waking up in this body day after day.”

‘‘As if I didn’t know how you feel. When you think about it, it is such an absurd concept, that you are predestined to live your life in a certain way from the moment of your birth. People have different expectations from men and women, no matter how similar we actually are. Enjolras would understand if we explained everything to him, he is not a cruel man. It is his life purpose to help others, do you not remember?”

‘‘He is not a cruel man, but he is a man,” said Bahorel.

‘‘So are we!”

‘‘Have you ever seen another man naked? They look nothing like us.”

‘‘True, they are much uglier.”

Grantaire blinked again, struck by a profound sense of déjà vu. What the two were saying reminded him too much of his conversation with Jehan. Mind trapped in a body it did not belong to. He still wasn’t sure if that was the case of Joly and Bossuet, too, but he assumed so, considering everything he had found out recently.

He felt guilty for eavesdropping, especially when the topic was such a delicate one, but he could not just weave his way through Bahorel’s legs all of sudden. What would he say? Hello, sorry but I’ve heard everything, I know of the secret you would never voluntarily share with another living soul, please don’t kill me? No, he had to stay here and wait for Feuilly and Bahorel to get up and leave. Hopefully that moment would come soon, seeing as Feuilly had never been much of a heavy drinker.

‘‘When we dress like men, at least people listen to us,” said Bahorel. ‘‘Well, they listen to me anyway, but first I have to show them just how far my ‘gentle’ fist can go into their face. I swear to God, if I hear anyone calling me a pretty face again, they will die a painful death.”

‘‘People can be horrible,” Feuilly agreed. ‘‘Not all of them though, and not all the time. Well, I have finished my coffee already, how about you?”

‘‘I have finished mine years ago. Come on, let’s get out of here before... Oh no.”

Grantaire stiffened. Oh no what? Had Bahorel noticed him? If so, Grantaire was doomed. Goodbye wine, goodbye painting, goodbye friends, goodbye Enjolras.

Bahorel shouted cheerily, ‘‘Enjolras! Here to get some coffee?” Oh _no._ Not Enjolras, please. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. Just when Bahorel and Feuilly were about to depart, the golden God himself had to arrive. Grantaire was never going to crawl out from under this damned table, was he. Bahorel would kill him for eavesdropping, Enjolras would kill him for getting so drunk again and Feuilly... Feuilly would not kill him, probably, but he would be sad and disappointed and that was just as bad.

‘‘Yes. To have a cup of coffee and to finish some work,” Enjolras replied. How did he manage to sound so full of life at such early hour? ‘‘This place is perfect for planning, silent enough not to disturb your thoughts and loud enough to remind you how alive Paris can be.’‘

 ‘‘If you wish to see how lively Paris is, I would suggest that you visit any nearby pub after midnight,’‘ joked Bahorel. ‘‘Oh, all the bloodied noses and broken bones...”

Grantaire's poor back was beginning to complain about the position he had to remain in, but if he attempted to move, he would likely hit his head or knock the table over and neither of these options held much appeal.

‘‘You know I don't like violence,’‘ said Enjolras. And wasn't it a funny thing for him to say? The man who hates violence, but is willing to shoot everyone standing in his way. What a lovely contradiction.

‘‘I know,’‘ said Bahorel. ‘‘Anyway, me and Feuilly have just finished our drinks and...’‘

‘‘You have to go, I understand. It's alright, I would hate to detain you from your duties. See you at the meeting.”

‘‘Do you not need some help with those plans though?’‘ Feuilly asked ever so politely, pointing at the documents Enjolras had laid out on the table before him.

‘‘No, I can handle it, but thank you for your offer,’‘ Enjolras smiled - Grantaire heard it in the way he spoke; he wished he could see it, too, since Enjolras never cast smiles in his direction, only in the others’. No surprises there, if Grantaire was someone else, he would not smile at himself either.

  A few more see you laters, the sound of receding footsteps, no more talking. Silence surrounded Grantaire, or at least as much of it as was possible in a café, anyway. The pain in his back was growing more intense, as was his hunger. He sighed. He could not stay there forever, hiding like a guilty child.

Grantaire drew open the tablecloth that had been blocking his view and narrowed his eyes to protect himself from being blinded by rays of sharp light. He crawled out from his hideaway. A kneeling man with dark circles underlining his tired eyes and his waistcoat torn and wine-stained; he must have been a spectacle to behold. And of course, it was there and then that Enjolras' eyes met his. How did their leader always come across Grantaire at his worst?  Grantaire averted his gaze, stood up and swiftly headed off for the exit. If he fleed fast enough, he might be spared of another one of Enjolras’ reproachful speeches.

‘‘Grantaire.’‘ Or not.

Grantaire turned around, grinning widely.  ‘‘Yes, Enjolras?’‘

‘‘Did you fall asleep on the floor?’‘

‘‘Who, me? Why would I ever do such a thing? Floors are meant for walking and dancing, not sleeping. I am no expert, but Joly would certainly be happy to share with you all the health problems it could cause you if you were to repeatedly use the floor as a sleeping place. His speech would definitely include conditions such as scoliosis, lordosis, or other long latin words no sane person could ever remember. Frankly, I wouldn’t wish to acquire any disorders with long latin names, every illness seems much more deadly after you give it such a name, how could you win a fight against all those syllables? They would crush you as if you were nothing but a tiny ant under their giant sole. I would not want to be an ant, would you? They slave their whole lives, carrying food from one place to another and again and again and again until they either die of old age or somebody steps on them.”

‘‘Grantaire.’‘ The more times Enjolras repeated his name, the more exasperated he usually was. ‘‘I gave you a simple question that could hardly be interpreted as a request for you to lecture me about the joys and struggles of ants. Did you sleep on the floor or not?’‘

‘‘No,’‘ said Grantaire, ‘‘I was only examining the table from underneath. Tables have fascinated me since I was a boy.’‘

‘‘Are you even capable of giving me a truthful, straightforward answer?’‘

‘‘Honestly, I have no idea. Ask the stars, they might know.’‘

‘‘The stars are telling me you should keep your mouth shut unless you are going to say something meaningful,’‘ said Enjolras dryly, returning his attention to his work. Grantaire felt relieved that Enjolras would stop berating him, disappointed that Enjolras would stop speaking and enamoured because Enjolras was Enjolras; peaceful yet violent, polite yet harsh, amicable yet terrifying.    

Grantaire's gaze lingered on Enjolras' frowning face for another moment, then he smiled sadly and walked out of the café Musain, leaving their leader to his plans and maps and notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly satisfied with this chapter, but... *sighs* I hope it's not THAT bad?


	4. Combeferre

Mere minutes ago, only seeing all the people drinking alcohol around him had made Grantaire feel sick. Now, he would give a kingdom for a bottle. Enjolras had that kind of an effect, his remarks made you want to drown yourself in wine. No one ever said having feelings for a man who held you in scorn would be easy, after all.

Grantaire sat down on the pavement in front of Musain, observing the people of Paris – the children of the street, prostitutes, beggars and thieves, the occasional well-dressed gentleman or lady... How could Enjolras love this rotten place so much, didn’t he see that not even his revolution could rescue the citizens from their misery? No, of course he didn’t, he was that naive and idealistic and it would be his downfall one day.

He was not certain how much time he had spent watching the bypassers, but when his eyes slid to the next individual, he recognised the familiar face immediately – it belonged to Enjolras. Whatever he had been working on in Musain, he had to be done with it, otherwise he would not have left. Unable to drop his gaze, he kept watching the angry revolutionary who was  currently on his was to... where exactly? Oh, he was rushing over to a bench occupied by Combeferre and Courfeyrac and damn it, how had Grantaire missed that the duo had been sitting so close to him? They both looked crestfallen, which indicated serious trouble.

Enjolras knelt next to the bench and spoke to Combeferre. He was frowning, but the grimace had been caused by thougtfulness, not rage. The fact that a great part of Enjolras’ heart was claimed by France didn’t mean there was not enough place for his friends as well; Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s sombre mood had genuinely concerned him.

Courfeyrac talked, Enjolras listened, nodding once in a while. After Courfeyrac's litany about who knows what had ended, Enjolras stood up, gave Combeferre's shoulder a light squeeze and smiled reassuringly. Combeferre returned the smile and said goodbye to Enjolras, who likely had to depart in order to run urgent errands related to the cause.

Whichever comforting words Enjolras had chosen, they hadn't done the job. As soon as Enjolras disappeared out of sight, Combeferre sighed heavily and Courfeyrac put an arm around his shoulders. It had been nice of Enjolras to worry about his friends, but however charming he could be, he was still better at planning revolutions than being a shoulder to cry on, it seemed.

‘‘Combeferre!’‘ Grantaire decided to step in and replace Enjolras as the new local adviser. ‘‘What's wrong? Can I help you?’‘

Courfeyrac said ‘‘No, he's fine’‘, just at the same time Combeferre replied with an ‘‘I don't know yet’‘. Well now that did nothing to dissolve Grantaire’s confusion.

Enjolras' most trusted lieutenants exchanged a long look, communicating without words.

‘‘We can trust Grantaire,’‘ said Combeferre, shifting his gaze to Grantaire. Oh, so this was yet another secret his friends were keeping from Enjolras? Enjolras did care, that much was true, but he was not he type of person you'd visit at three a.m. to get you out of a foul mood.

‘‘Remember what Jehan told us yesterday evening?’‘ Combeferre asked.

‘‘How could I not remember,’‘ Courfeyrac said.

‘‘Well, he and I carried on with the conversation for a while after you had left and Jehan confided to me that he had found the courage to tell us only thanks to Grantaire who had heard him out and had been very accepting about the issue.’‘

The way Combeferre said the sentence sounded as though Grantaire was some sort of a magnificent human being, which was wrong on so many levels. Still, it pleased Grantaire to hear that Jehan had gathered the confidence he’d needed to open his heart to someone other than him. Nobody should have to deal with shame gnawing away at them for what they could not change about themselves.

‘‘He had?’‘ Courfeyrac gave Grantaire a small smile. ‘‘Well, no one in their right mind could call Grantaire a bad friend, that is true.’‘

‘‘I am bad everything, but when it comes to friendship, I strive to be at least decent. The world is terrible enough, I feel no need to contribute to its wickedness with unnecessary callousness,’‘ said Grantaire. ‘‘So tell me, what is the matter, what has been bothering you, dear Combeferre?”

‘‘What can I do for you, he says like a doctor or a salesman,’‘ Courfeyrac points out, amused. ‘‘You could make a living listening to others’ sorrows, Grantaire.’‘

‘‘Well, why ever not! I like the idea, thank you. Go on then, Combeferre, but do not forget to pay me for my services afterward. I accept payment in francs or in goods, said goods being preferably wine, although I am not picky, if you offered tasty food, I would not turn it down either,’‘ Grantaire joked.

“It was I who came up with the idea, I demand at least ten percent of your earnings,” said Courfeyrac.

“As you wish, my friend.”

Combeferre cleared his throat, face deadly serious. There was some nervosity in him, too, and Grantaire was growing worried. ‘‘Grantaire, you... Do you know about me and Courfeyrac?’‘

‘‘I know quite a lot about the both of you, yes. For example, I know that Courfeyrac takes his coffee with too much sugar and that you take forever to return borrowed books.”

‘‘That is... not quite what I meant,’‘ said Combeferre carefully. ‘‘I meant...’‘

‘‘I know what you meant, I was only pulling your leg. I apologise. And yes, everyone is aware that you two are... very close,’‘ Grantaire winked. ‘‘However, I don't think anyone minds.’‘

‘‘That's not the whole problem.’‘

‘‘What, is Courfeyrac not an attentive lover?’‘

‘‘The most attentive!’‘ cried Courfeyrac, offended by the insinuation.

‘‘That's not the problem, either,’‘ said Combeferre, ignoring the display of Courfeyrac’s wounded ego. ‘‘I think... I am afraid I might be... with a child.’‘ Oh.

Grantaire did not let his surprise show - there would be enough time to discuss trivialities later, now they had to focus on the more pushing issue. ‘‘Oh. And... how have you come to that conclusion, was it,’‘ first he was going to say woman's instict, but that did not feel right, ‘‘instinct?’‘

‘‘You could say so. And the first thing I did today after climbing out of my bed was throwing up.’‘

Grantaire gave his friend a sympathetic look. ‘‘Are you going to see a doctor about this?’‘

‘‘I don't really have much choice, do I,’‘ said Combeferre bitterly. ‘‘Please, Grantaire, don't tell a living soul about any of this. If my suspicions prove right and I am to bear a child,’‘ his voice sounded upset and scared, ‘‘everything in my life is going to change. When I was little, other children would mock me for my looks, calling me the ugliest girl they had ever met. My nose was too big, eyebrows too thick, voice too low. I looked more like a boy than a girl and I would have been content with it, were it not for their ridicule. I have never found enjoyment in playing with other girls and I've never cared much for clothes or embroidery or whatever else it is that people like to consider to be woman-like. When I got older, I cut my hair and exchanged skirts for trousers - you could imagine my parents' fury - and that was when strangers began to assume I was a young man instead of a hideous woman. Yes, I'm quite short and my figure is a bit too round and curvy, but I've always picked my clothes carefully and it has never given me away. I had to leave my family, for they weren't too supportive of my lifestyle, and started anew, beginning my studies and joining Les Amis. I cannot afford to take care of a child, I cannot have everyone know and I don't want to interrupt my studies or stop attending the meetings. Also, my finances barely suffice to keep me alive and well, how would I feed two mouths?’‘        

‘‘After the child is born, you could... put it away, leave it for someone else to raise it,’‘ it sounded horrible to Grantaire's ears, but he had to voice the thought.

‘‘No,’‘ Combeferre said softly, shaking his head, ‘‘what would become of him or her then? If I give birth, it will be my responsibility to make sure the child has a good life and a loving family, at the least. But the timing could not be worse, Enjolras talks more and more of the upcoming revolution and... just when I started to believe I found true happiness in life, God had to remind me I should stay home with children instead of fighting for the cause. But I've never been a lady, Grantaire, never. I respect women highly, I just don't belong with them, the world of men is the one I know and understand. This is not the kind of life I can lead without losing myself.’‘

Grantaire could not fully comprehend the depth of Combeferre’s disconcern, but he sympathised. All he ever wanted was for his friends to be happy and the thought that they might never achieve that left him with bitterness in his heart. And Enjolras believed a world like this could be saved? Did he really think people who were so stuck in their prejudice and hatred would want a change? He had to squeeze his eyes shut. No matter how many times he had begged Enjolras to stop with this madness, to not throw his life away for nothing, Enjolras had only yelled at him.

And he wondered why Grantaire drank so much.

“Grantaire? Are you feeling well?” Combeferre’s forehead creased in concern.

“Sorry, yes I am, I’m just tired. What have you told Enjolras when he was here?”

“That I was suffering from an especially cruel headache. Which wasn’t even a lie, I feel like dying,” said Combeferre tiredly. Courfeyrac took his beloved one’s hand in his, looking just as pained.

 “Well,” Combeferre rasped, his face turning a pale shade of green, “I suggest that you two step aside, unless you want me to repay your kind words by being sick all over your shoes.”

Grantaire leapt aside. _What a charming morning this has been_ , he thought grimly, _if the rest of the day continues in similar fashion, God help us._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not actually trans myself, so please, if you find anything inaccurate or offensive, let me know. I would hate to get something wrong.


End file.
